Does It Need A Title?

Dirty Barftinis

Maybe you noticed me at the bar last night?

I'm not sure when the habit started. But it's sticking. And it needs to end.

I used to be the kind of girl who would roll into a bar and get a mixed drink -- rum and coke, Stoli Vanilla and ginger ale, vodka cran -- as long as it didn't contain gin, tonic and/or beer and was good for my urinary tract, I was happy. We were a great match, me and my mixies. They were reasonably priced, tasted good, and I could sip 3 or 4 or 5 over the course of an evening and still maintain myself as a lady.

Maybe it was my friend Mike who changed my tune. We were out one evening having an early bird drinkie, when he ordered a drink I previously found too annoying to even ask for: A Dirty Martini. It's like - Great! Why don't I order a dirty martini, get out my hot pink feather pen, scrawl the next great chick lit fare on the back of an old sailor, complain that my Manolos hurt, cry, loudly and in public, call up my ex-husband, Jack, rekindle, Jack be a dick, and fuck myself with a candlestick? Do you know what I'm saying about Dirty Martinis?? They weren't my style. My life was not that sad.

Mike got his martini, as I received my lightly carbonated sweet tasting bevy. I looked over at his glass and -- ohh -- that's a nice touch. It's frosted. Looks kinda refreshing I guess... crisp. Oh, what's that? Wow, look how many olives! What are there like... 3... 4 olives! It's like... It's like a little, a little meal... in your glass! How deliriously delightful! How exquisitely gauche! Listen, take any kind of food, put it in a glass, bathe it in liquor, and I'm there. Seriously, I'd have a pita-and-hummus-tini if I could. So I relented -- I'll have one.

Mmmmm-mm--mmmmm! That is delicious! It's like, I always wondered what would happen to me if I drank the juice out of a Klausen's pickle jar, and now I know -- I turn into the life of the party! How much is it? $17? Haha! Worth every cent! Look how much fun I am!

This went on for probably 3 weeks.

But now, I face a new problem. See, when I'm out small talking the masses, I need a glass in my hand. And, seeing it as a prop I use to puncuate a joke, I sip often, and quickly. Now, admittedly, 85 percent of the drink usually ends up on my lap/shoes, as they serve it to me in a triangle-shaped glass balancing on a swizzle stick, not unlike what the Doozers used to build houses with on "Fraggle Rock." I mean, really, bartenders of America, why don't you start pouring shots down the long barrel of a loaded gun. Because, Lord knows, that quickly too would become my drink of choice!

Sidenote: Remember how great Fraggle Rock was? Do you think kids today are gonna say that shit about "Dora the Explorer" in 10 years? Because I'm willing to bet "Fraggle Rock" was 100 times more hilarious.

As I was saying, I drink quickly, and seeing that martinis are, roughly, 1500 times stronger than my "boring" old mixed drinks, I tend to get very drunk, very fast. And I. Don't. Like. It.

I just don't kno -- uch, God, I'm too hungover to even say it.

So I'm making it public -- I am quitting Dirty Martinis. I don't care how pretty/dangerous the glass is, I don't care if they throw a side of brisket in there, I cannot order them anymore. There is nothing worse than finding oneself smashed and totally broke at the end of the night. Well, that's not true -- there is SOMETHING worse...

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Uptown Hallucinations

Huh. I never even knew it was a Special Olympics event. Strange.

Walking to the train this morning, I saw something startling.

A boy was riding his unicycle to school.

I watched as his path wobbled left and right, his feet pedalling clockwise, clockwise, counter-clockwise, his arms stretched out like an injured, mongoloidy bird about to take flight. I jumped out of his way, as he continued up Broadway, alone, cycling along.

And I thought to myself:

That's it, Collins. You've finally cracked. Why, God? Why now?

Then I saw an old black man catch sight of this spectacle, and nearly drop his bag from shock. And I knew it wasn't just me.

Then I thought. Wait. This kid is riding his unicycle to school? What kind of parent would allow their kid to invite a one-wheeled ass-beating from the other kids? As though the fact that the kid looked partially disabled even if he was walking on two legs wasn't bad enough.

"But Papa, I don't want to ride my unicycle to school!""You will-a ride-a you unicycle to school, because I used to when I was a boy, and so did my Papa, and so did his Papa! Now get-a you balancing stick and getta out! You gonna be a-late!"

Also, he was like 9 years old, and seemingly all alone. What happened - was his Dad too busy hang-gliding to work to take in little Johnny?

My friends yell at me for eating here, but can you blame me? Their salads are like $2.95, and it's in an old shack that's gonna make a sweet, glorious death trap.

Please, please, please do not come up and introduce yourself to me. It really makes me lose my appetite. Just sit in a corner and stare. I like that dangerous feeling of eating a meal while debating who amongst the diners is going to murder me in the ladies toilet, and turn my body into carrot-ginger dressing.

Also, an aside: I watched 2 straight hours of Friends last night on TBS, from 6 - 8 pm. They were showing the last 3 episodes of the series, including the hour long season finale (Mon and Chandler move the the burbs with twins, Rachel goes to Paris, Joey... buys some birds.) I remember when the show aired originally, I could not have been any less bored. The same stale jokes, the same character flaws, the Ross and Rachel melodrama that I wanted to gag from.

But a strange thing happened last night: I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I laughed heartily at all of that wacky Joey's crazy antics, all of Chandler's wry witticisms... and... well.... I CRIED when Rachel came back to Ross's apartment declaring her love for him in the last episode. Well, not so much "cried", as "had trouble breathing air", or "hyperventilated" (what I've dubbed my "Post-9/11 Breathing Pattern"). This can only mean one thing: I'm not as barren as my gyno warned me I'd be if I didn't quit smoking meth and drinking Crystal Light. Yay!!! Hormones... more like Crack Whore-moans!

Seriously, what the hell am I talking about.

Genius idea for a spin-off: "Friends and a Trout." (Photo courtesy of Julia, whose comic antics have also been known to cause "Post-9/11 Breathing Patterns".)

Friday, March 24, 2006

Pierce Bush = The Perfect Name for a Date Rapist

Today's post will be short and super sweet.

I caught glimpse of a video clip (or "meme") making the rounds. It's the President's nephew, Pierce Bush, being interviewed by Campbell Robertson on The Today Show, about a letter he wrote defending his uncle's (remember: The President) stance on the Port deal.

A few things to note: 1. Their resemblance is UNCANNY. 2. He is SO COKED UP. 3. Pierce Bush is maybe the best name for an very obvious date raper. I mean -- look how smug.

Anyway, enjoy!

p.s. If you're in the Columbia U. neighb tomorrow night, I'll be doing some comedy. The deets:

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Battle of the Carol Seavers

If you're a child of the 80's, as I was, certain shows were all over your radar. Silver Spoons, Out of This World, Mr. Belvedere, Family Ties... I don't think I need to remind you just how great sitcoms used to be. (Summed up in three words: Child Robot Maid. See also, Small Wonder.)

I will say, she was an excellent actress.

It wasn't until a few days ago, however, that the joyful and delicious memories of 80's television came crashing down around me.

Before I say anything, let's play a little game that will probably look familiar to you if you're an avid Highlights reader, as I am. It's called "Find the Differences." OK, here we go:

Picture Number 1

(blink hard to clear your brain)

Picture Number 2

WHO IS THIS CAROL SEAVER IMPOSTER, I ASK YOU!?!

(17 seconds of Googling later...)

You guys. This is CRAY. Turns out, the original Carol Seaver was named Elizabeth Ward. After showing the pilot to test audiences, they recast Tracey Gold in her place. That must have been heartbreaking, no? I mean, Carol on Growing Pains is the role of a lifetime! Can you imagine -- you're 15 years old, your acting career is about to take off, and then they fire you because some prick in a test audience didn't think you were pretty enough.

Clearly Elizabeth Ward. SHE HAD A ONE NIGHT STAND WITH BILL CLINTON PEOPLE. It begins and ends there.

With thanks to the lovely Garth Johnston for his heartfelt e-mails and daily mindgasms.

UPDATE! I knew this post would be highly controversial, but little did I know how much commotion it would stir. Turns out, it isn't the same Elizabeth Ward. (Someone should really fix that Wikipedia entry, I swear!) Growing Pains Elizabeth Ward went on to do... well... nothing. The subject of Bill Clinton's playful date rape, on the other hand, is an entirely different Elizabeth Ward.

So, with these new details now known, I must recrown a new winner in the "Battle of the Carol Seavers". Congratulations Tracey Gold! How bout celebrating with a nice cold bucket of merlot?

Matzah Matter With You?

I'm organizing a very exciting Passover event at Mo Pitkins on April 13 (details to follow, of course), where myself, along with some of New York's best comics, will lead an audience through the second night of Seder using funny and sing-songy tactics. And that's all I'll say about that at the moment.

But in the process of writing and organizing this show, I was reminded of a Passover story too good not to share.

I was about six years old, living and learning in Miami Beach, Fl. Six was a very good age for me: I was still relatively tiny (about the size of an average 9 year old), but the awkwardness of puberty and the early 90's, aka Areola-town, U.S.A. and side-sprayed bangs, had yet to set in. So I was a tall, half-Chinese looking little flat-chested lass with shiny, shiny unsprayed bangs. (It's important for me that you understand how scarring my awkward years were, even though my appearance has nothing to do with this story.)

That year, instead of having Seder in the house, we decided to head over to the formerly posh Doral Hotel on Miami Beach for Seder. These days, I'm not even sure if the Doral exists. Most of the old hotels on the strip have been bulldozed to make room for hundreds of thousands of extremely wealthy South Americans. But in the late 80's, the Doral was fairly fance, so my fam threw on some respectful duds and headed South.

It was quite the affair. About 30 big round tables, a big stage where the Rabbi did his thing, a 3-story high ceiling with wall to wall windows facing the bay. Before the Seder began, people were milling about, chatting with one another, while my parents, brother and I sat patiently at the table waiting.

While the audience was still in a commotion getting their seats, my eagle-eyed mother spotted a very sacred, spiritual and secretive act taking place: The hiding of the Afikomen. The afikomen is a piece of matzah which is hidden somewhere in the immediate surroundings, which at the end of the meal, children must hunt for. Once found, it's the last thing to be eaten at the Seder. Kind of like easter eggs, except we Jews hunt for a broken piece of dry cracker. The child that finds said dry cracker then wins a prize, usually money. (Please do not remind me about the Amy Grant tape my parents still owe me.)

What the holiday is all about.

So there's the Rabbi, looking around suspiciously, as he takes the afikomen wrapped in a cloth napkin and HIDES it in a plant near the stage. This is like reading the end of the Da Vinci Code before you even start the book. WE KNEW WHERE THE AFIKOMEN WAS!

A fairly uncreative hiding place: In front of the cat.

Now, any normal person witnessing this would think "Great! We won!! We're definitely winning the prize!" But because my parents are certifiably fucking out of their minds, they had another idea.

"Michelle", my mother whispered, the hot Manischevitz breath burning my ears, "come closer. When the Rabbi tells the kids to find the Afikomen, I want you to go to the plant, get it, but don't say anything!! Come back to the table with it, and just keep it to yourself, ok?"

Did I have a choice? I was 6, so the answer was no. At this point in my life I was simply a pawn, used for various pranks my parents wished to pull.

You decide: A special novelty cloth to wrap the Afikomen in? Or a desperate note left behind by an unfortunate piece of matzah that has been taken prisoner in the Middle East? Or a special novelty cloth given to a child by a cartoon matzah that strongly resembles an unleavened child molester?

Afikomen time! I was always very sly, even though I was overgrown, and managed to pluck the wrapped matzah out of the plant and non-chalantly return to my seat without anyone noticing. For the next 20 or so minutes, my family PEED LAUGHING as we watched about 50 little kids looking for an afikomen that didn't exist. These kids were CRAY CRAY. They wouldn't give up! Under the tables, shaking the curtains, combing through the Rabbi's beard... all the while, the Afikomen was just chillaxing in my lap.

After a while, the Rabbi grew concerned. He peered over at the plant, and saw that the Afikomen was indeed missing. Missing!! He stroked his beard and glanced around nervously. Slyly he side-stepped his way over to some more matzah, and thinking no one was watching, wrapped another broken piece in a napkin and walked over to the plant. Once again, he nestled it in its branches, and once again, within about a minute, I strode over and yanked it out.

But we had had our fun. The game was over. So, holding one blessed piece of matzah, and one dummy Afikomen, I ran to the stage. "I foooound theeem!" I sang loudly.

The relief on this Rabbi's face was indescribable. "We have a winner!" All the kids "awwwed". I ran up the steps to the stage where I was presented with my gift: A hardcover copy of some book called "The Gang of Four", which I never ended up reading.

Although, surely, if my copy had had this hilarious cover, I would have polished it off in one long, unsuccessful Pesach bathroom break. (No fiber, people.) Who knew it was about birds attacking small children!?

This story, to me, is the definition of Passover in the Collins family: Acting like complete dumbasses. We used to call it "Passover with the Bundies", referring to the sit-com "Married with Children", and not serial killer "Ted Bundy". Although, really, either one is apt.

Worst Afikomen Prize Ever? A jumbo can of "Mrs. Adler's Gefilte Fish." Seriously, it sounds like a euphemism for "Grandparent Sex."

Highly Spamusing

I am about 3 years too late on this "tip", but a friend recently forwarded me a site that I found hiLArious. It's called "Spamusement", and involves one cartoonist taking Spam e-mail subject headers and turning them into captions for his cartoons. Usually, I'm not one to loiter around a random website, but I spent a good 30 minutes going through each one yesterday. Highly worth it. Some favorites:

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

The Saddest Movie In Cinematic History

Thanks to "Nygel from Nottingham", who passed along this trailer for a Japanese movie that is like the baby animal version of 9/11 (i.e., SO SAD.) According to Nyge (who dabbles in Japanese), "It's called "Fox Cub Helen" (Ed note: Google searches have named it "Helen the Baby Fox") or "Kogitsune Heren" depending on how you translate it. It's about a boy living with no mom, with no friends who finds a deaf and blind fox cub."

Sorry. Let me repeat that. "A boy living with no mom, with no friends who finds a deaf, blind and mute fox cub."

It kills me slowly that little Helen cannot appreciate the sight of the glorious flowers sprouting forth from the soil on this very obviously Godless Earth.

Seven-year old Taichi (Arashi Fukasawa) is shunted to the remote Hokkaido home of a veterinarian (Takao Osawa) when his camerawoman mom travels on a Pacific photographic assignment. Feeling neglected, the tyke takes pity on a deaf, blind, mute fox he names after Helen Keller. This guardian role teaches Taichi about parental responsibilities and sharpens his appreciation of his career mom's duty to make a living for both their benefits.

If you have ever made any pacts promising your soul to the Devil, this trailer is a great way to see if he really took you up on it. For, if you do not cry, sir, you have NO SOUL.

The trailer: (If it's taking time to load, pause it, let it load, then play the video.)

"Oh God, I could really go for a strong cup of coffee after this. Let me just grab my mug and AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! (Hands on hips.) Herennnn! (blowing my bangs out of my face.) What am I gonna do with a blind, deaf, mute fox cub? Cuddle it all the livelong day? If you insist."

Monday, March 20, 2006

I Love Kids!!!

Nice to know someone chose to take a precious digy-picky of the incident, instead of offering a helping hand. You know what's really cute? Tiny eyebrows.

This Sunday, I had the pleasure of brunching with an old friend at one of my favorite Upper West Side estabs. We finished up, flossed at the table, paid the bill, and opted for a leisurely stroll northwards to work off the arugula with water dressing we had just binged on.

A couple of blocks up, I heard tiny footsteps SPRINTING right next to me. Right as I turn, expecting to find a midget with a shiv demanding the $17 worth of change I keep in my bra (to thwart thieves), I found instead a small child booking it up the street, away from his mother. Sure enough, lil' Prefontaine's Nike sneaker got caught on a corrugated metal basement door, and all 24 pounds of the kid fell at once. He caught himself on his hands, and looked shocked.

So, of course, I'm not a tyrant, and I gasp and say "Are you OK?" He looks up, huge -- almost cow-like -- brown eyes in disbelief, and nods. He actually really does seem fine. Maybe I mis-judged this little guy. He's a runner! He's strong! He's -- Oh... no... here it comes...

It's so funny how it takes children a full 3 minutes to figure out that they're hurt. 2 seconds ago, he was fine, but you can hear the cry twitter deep down, hear it growing, the face slowly contorting, until the kid is having a full grown epi. He was gone. Sobbing. Inconsolable. I felt bad.

And then. Then I heard the mother, booming from behind. Petite, overly made-up, in a Juicy Couture sweatsuit with a puffy coat on top, holding some shopping bags. "Michaaaaeeeelll-uh! Michaeeeel-uh! What did aw-i tell you-uh about-uh ruunnnning-uh!" Her voice boomed. "What is a-wwrrrruh-ong-uh with youuuu-uh!?"

When little Jimmy comes running up to Mommy with a question, she rolls her eyes, scoffs, and points at her rack.

I grabbed my friend's arm. "Let's go." I felt cheated. I had tried to help out the child of the most annoying, callous-seeming fucking bitch in New York City.